


the found song

by necrotype



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gender Issues, M/M, POV Second Person, Trans Character, bisexual!dean, femme!Dean, trans woman!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-02
Updated: 2014-05-02
Packaged: 2018-01-21 14:24:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1553573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/necrotype/pseuds/necrotype
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a long time to feel content (a disjointed story in five parts).</p>
            </blockquote>





	the found song

**Author's Note:**

> This contains some casual cissexism, non-detailed sex, gendered slurs, and heterosexism; the underage refers to consensual underage, high school sex. Also, there's a lot of angst. This is in second person POV.

_one._

You swipe nail polish from the convenience store when you’re eight. You didn’t get a chance to look at the color too closely. You know how stealing works: it’s quick, fast enough to appear harmless so you can buy Sammy some food with the little money you have left. The bottle weighs heavy in your pocket. You can feel it pressed against the skin of your thigh with every step you take.

That night, you sit perched on the edge of the tub. Your feet are bare, and the cold from the tile seeps into your skin until you’re shivering. You keep crossing and uncrossing your toes nervously. The bottle of nail polish is next to you, a lovely shade of green that matches your eyes. When you put it on your nails, you do it slowly, with the same care you put into stitching up gashes and cuts. Each brush stroke feels like a secret, dangerous and exciting.

The next morning, you lace up your boots extra tight, so no one can see. You have to fight back a smile when you wriggle your toes in your boots, because no one knows except for you.

_two._

He’s beautiful in a way that leaves you nauseous, because you’re not allowed to love him. When you look at him, it feels like a punch in the gut. You can’t do anything, because you’re in high school, and you’ll probably leave in a few days, and he’s a boy. But you want to tell him that he’s beautiful, that he’s a brilliant supernova, that his voice makes your heart stop for a second, that he’s been on your mind for days and days.

He approaches you first, and then you’re in his empty house after school. His eyes gleam when they catch yours after a joke; you wonder if he can see the bags under your eyes from another late night, if he can tell that your eyes are a killer’s eyes. Your laugh sounds strange even to your own ears. When he holds your hands—rough, calloused—in his, you wonder if he can tell that you scrubbed your hands for an hour last night, trying to wash away the blood and dirt caked under your nails. The way he cups your jaw leaves you breathless. He kisses you, then, and his mouth tastes like the cheap beer you’ve both been drinking.

He fucks you on his bed, on old and worn sheets that cool the sweaty skin of your back. The sound of skin on skin makes you feel lighter than you have in years, and you think that you could get used to this. You could love him. You have to bite your lips to keep from saying anything, and when you can’t help but open your mouth, he swallows your gasps and moans and whispers. You leave his house hours later, the taste of beer still on your lips.

_three._

“I’m bisexual,” she says, and you can tell that she’s scared of your reaction (will you be hard and cold, will you ask about the cunts she’s licked, will you say nothing but fuck her extra hard to make up for the transgression). You don’t know what to say, except for a soft “oh” that’s more like a light huff of air, because everything is settling into place. You think about that boy, the one who kissed you like you mattered, and when you kiss her, you whisper “me too, me too” into her soft lips. She laughs with relief.

It doesn’t last. She calls you a boy.

You’re careful to act like you’re unaffected, as if your blood doesn’t suddenly feel like ice in your veins, because it’s wrong, it’s so wrong, and you don’t know why. It’s been like that for months: someone calls you a boy, and you feel a pang in your chest that makes you want to scream, but you don’t know why. Because of course you’re a boy; you’ve got a hard cock pressed against her thigh, and your chest is flat, and you hair is short.

You tell yourself you’re a boy because you don’t know what else you could be.

_four._

You put on her panties.

Rhonda seems happy that you agreed so quickly, even if you stumbled over your words. Your hands shake as you pull them up, relishing the way the silk feels against your calves and thighs. When they’re snug around your hips, you can’t look at her in the eyes; you don’t want to look at her just yet. You need to settle first, get used to the feeling. She coos at you, calls you a pretty boy, such a pretty boy. A blush creeps up your neck, leaves you feeling warm and uncomfortable. You run your tongue over your teeth while she looks at you, a thoughtful smile on her pretty lips as she considers what to do with you; you wonder if she wants to use the pink cock you saw in her drawer when she reached for condoms. The words fall out of your mouth like an accident, but they’re words you have been thinking for a while. They burn when they claw out of your throat.

“I’m a woman.”

Your voice is small, confused. She doesn’t say anything at first. You focus on the threads in the sheets under your hands; they’re rough against the pads of your fingers. When she moves, she’s quiet, settling on the bed until her breasts are pressed against your back. You feel a shock of jealousy burst through you.

“Okay,” she says, and you can feel her smile against the nape of your neck. “Thank you for telling me, darling.”

_five._

You can’t look in the mirror the first time you wear a dress. It’s soft, worn down from being at the bottom of your duffel for months. You’re wearing lingerie under the dress, too, but that’s easier to do, that’s something you have been doing for months now. The panties dig into your hips, and part of you hopes that the bra on your chest leaves red marks on your skin for days. You revel in the feeling of silk against your cock, even if you aren’t aroused. The pink lace feels like home.

But you can’t look at yourself right now. You take the dress off and put it back in the duffel. Next time, next time for sure. For now, you crawl under the covers of a ratty motel bed, and you fall to sleep, smiling, because you are a woman and you are content.


End file.
